


As Long As You're Mine

by apollofastingdionysusdrunk (orphan_account)



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Amsterdam, Anthropology, Combeferre is a philosopher, Cosette And Enjolras Are Siblings, F/M, Fluff, I do ship a bit of Joly/Jehan, M/M, Pianist!Courfeyrac, Sexual Content, Sexual Frustration, Smut, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, music nerding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 07:03:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1419114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/apollofastingdionysusdrunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac is a world-famous pianist; and with such a career comes with its own disadvantages. He traveled around the world, doing what he loves, but nevertheless he misses his friends, and a certain philosopher that he idly dotes on. The Gods were up on their game when Courfeyrac and Combeferre found each other again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Long As You're Mine

Gaston Courfeyrac was always nervous before playing, which was slightly strange, being the confident and audacious lad that he usually is. He was noticeable among his group of friends. There was Enjolras’ leadership and introversion, Combeferre’s overwhelming diligence and care, Marius’ socially inept but incredibly smart and political personality, Feuilly’s hardworking ethics, Bahorel’s rowdy behaviour and Parisian saunter, Joly’s jovial demeanor and constant worries, Bossuet’s unlucky charms and bad puns, Jean Prouvaire - or to his prefered name, Jehan - was in love with the world and its nature, and Grantaire, whose state of consciousness existed between fumes of alcohol, his philosophies between drunken rambles, his ability to seek flaws in Enjolras’ plans - which annoyed the golden man, and his good humour. 

 

Just thinking about his friends made him lonelier than ever; he imagined the road he took as a pianist, touring around all sorts of countries and cities, whilst the other men were still in Paris, making a living. Well, Enjolras did say that he was planning on taking Grantaire to America for a brief vacation; those two were dating for two years already (it has been quite a long time since Courfeyrac saw Enjolras look so in love, before his first date with R), and he had a long phone conversation with Marius the other night, who had planned his proposal to his pretty fiancee Cosette (who also happens to be Enjolras’ little sister) for the last six weeks, and Feuilly had sent him his latest fan design as a present. But he missed Enjolras Tholomyes and Remus Combeferre, his two best friends since elementary, the most. Especially Combeferre, his inner mind added, but he quickly pushed the thought away. No time for delusions, not for a busy man like him.

 

Courfeyrac had rehearsed with the orchestra this morning, had a light lunch of bacon sandwich, and then, because of need of a distraction, went to the pictures. He did not notice his constant tapping fingers against the arm of his seat until the stranger behind him scolded him. His mind was too wafted of the music he was going to play later that evening. 

 

In Amsterdam, there were lots of places to visit. He visited the Rijksmuseum, then sauntered through the Botanical Gardens of the Free University, and window-shopped the streets of the grand city. At 4 o’clock he went back to his hotel room to take a nap, weighing the choice of calling Combeferre along the way, but turned it down. He remembered the olden days; Combeferre never lacked the ability to calm Courfeyrac down before a particular exam. In the presence of a struggle, he always went to Combeferre. Enjolras and Marius (his roommate in uni at the time) were fantastic friends and all, but they’re not exactly familiar to emotional help like Combeferre is. Now, at age 30, he still needed reassurance from his dearest friend - and a crush that he was certain is not reciprocated.

 

At 7 p.m., Courfeyrac arrived at the lovely old music hall, in the heart of Amsterdam. His heart, however, jumped up to his throat at the sheer amount of so many people crowding the lobby.

 

‘’We’ve simply sold out, Monsieur Courfeyrac! We had to turn away from so many people. Oh, if only it were possible for you to stay here another day or two. The Dutch loves you.’’

 

But Courfeyrac wasn’t listening, for he was too occupied with thinking of the recital that lay ahead of him. The director finally bowed his way out the door. A page knocked on his dressing room door.

 

‘’They’re ready for you on stage, Monsieur.’’

 

‘’Thank you.’’

 

Courfeyrac rose to his feet, aware of his trembling hands. Even with all great pianists; Horowitz, Rubenstein, Serkin, the nervousness never really went away before playing. His stomach churning, his heart pounding, he stepped out of the curtains, and the applause that erupted throughout all corners of the room did not help him, but the adrenalin was swirling. A spotlight glowed on him as he moved towards the piano; he was sure he did look handsome tonight. He was always quite a dashing-looking man. The nervousness disappeared as he set his fingers upon the keys. He felt calmer, he was treading through waters that excites him. It now seemed like he was replaced by someone more poised, more experienced, and he lets the sound of the piano washed over him.

 

The recital was an immediate success, as always. Afterwards, the green room was packed. There was something about Courfeyrac that was pleasing, so mesmerizing that drew others to him. He stood in the middle of the room, smiling, signing autographs, flirting and bantering with young men and women, and pleasant and friendly to all the people who came to see him. He loved being the center of attention, to be praised and to be criticized in the regards of his playing. The director was very right indeed when he said that the Dutch loved his music. He loved talking to other musicians, discussing classical music and past performances, ideas and theories, and personal opinions. He found all of it so intimate. Music was such a factor to engage one’s self with other people. 

 

‘’I could’ve mistaken you for Brahms himself! I was moved!’’

 

‘’You made Chopin so real for me!’’

 

‘’Can you sign another one, for my mother? She loves your recordings of Liszt, Beethoven, Mozart, and Bartok...’’

 

And so it went on, until something made him raise his eyes. Combeferre was standing by the doorway, smiling. He looked utterly wonderful - flaxen hair tidied, bright cerulean eyes seems to glitter with pride, his arms crossed over his chest as he gazed across the landing at Courfeyrac. The noises of his fans dimmed. 

 

Combeferre was always a handsome man, in an old-fashioned sort of way, very classy and very gentle. Everything about him was gentle, in fact - his voice, his mannerisms, his skin, the way he laughs, but what’s so strong about him was the power of his love. A faint proof of youth from his teenage years still struggled against the young man’s features. He was such a science nerd back then - he still was, eager to find out more, eager to read literature, and eager to make something of himself. Courfeyrac loved Combeferre. He was sure he still do. 

 

He made his way to the man, and took his hand. ‘’Oh my gosh, ‘Ferre! It’s so great to see you!’’ He embraced the other man, who hugged him back with equal force, murmuring something in his shoulder. 

 

‘’What are you doing in Amsterdam?’’ he asked when they pulled away.

 

Combeferre rolled his eyes adoringly, the way he does when Courfeyrac doesn’t catch on something profoundly obvious. ‘’To watch you play, you idiot. I think I deserve a brief vacation from this book I’m working on. What, can’t I see my best friend?’’

 

‘’I wish we could see each other everyday,’’ Courfeyrac confessed earnestly. ‘’Look, let’s go for supper after...’’

 

‘’I’m free,’’ Combeferre said quickly.

 

They had supper at a restaurant at Leidsestraat. As soon as they stepped inside, the customers applauded in excitement when they saw Courfeyrac, but he was too warmed in a glow simply by being at Combeferre’s side. When they settled, Combeferre looked around at the people who were looking admirable at his friend. ‘’They really loved you,’’ Combeferre stated. 

 

Courfeyrac just shook his head. ‘’Nah, it’s just the music they love. Who doesn’t love music? I’m just their messenger, and I just did a pretty good job of it.’’

 

‘’You underestimate yourself,’’ Combeferre told him. ‘’Don’t you ever get tired, playing the same tunes over and over every night?’’

 

‘’No; no two recitals are ever the same, the music may be the same, but the conductor is different, and same goes with the orchestra. It’s magic, an anthropology that twines everyone - not just musicians and music lovers - all together.’’

 

After they ordered, Courfeyrac continued: ‘’We do try to make each recital perfect, of course, but there is no such thing was a wholeheartedly successful piece. You have to remember, we have to deal with music that is always better than us mere mortals. Still, a whale song is more complex than the entirety of Mozart. We have to re-think the music each time in oder to recreate the sound of the composer.’’

 

Combeferre was resting his chin on the palm of his hand, looking at Courfeyrac with hooded eyes with a light smile brushing upon his lips. Courfeyrac struggled an urge to snog them. 

 

‘’So tell me about you,’’ he prompted eagerly. ‘’How are you doing, how are our friends? Tell me everything, ‘Ferre.’’

 

‘’Calm down, grasshopper,’’ Combeferre laughed. ‘’Well, I’m doing good actually. You know the book I mentioned? It’s, surprise surprise, a philosophical one. There is one particular topic that I’ve always been interested in since ninth grade, you know which one: anthropology. Augustine was one of my favourite philosophers, he was the one who saw the human body as two substances: soul and body. Logical, right? Augustine's favourite figure to describe body-soul unity is marriage: your body is your wife. The two elements were in harmony. After the fall of humanity they are now experiencing dramatic combat between one another. Anyways, the subject of anthropology leaves a lot to be desired.’’

 

Courfeyrac asked how their other friends are. ‘’I really need to catch up with them,’’ he said.

 

Combeferre grinned. ‘’Feuilly and Bahorel are seeing each other.’’

 

Courfeyrac smirked, ‘’Can’t say I’m surprised. How did that happen?’’

 

‘’After one of Bahorel’s boxing matches. Feuilly just snogged him senseless, well, I’m glad they finally figured things out. It seems like so many are dating these days; Eponine’s going out with this attractive, though weirdly disconcerting, young man - Montparnasse. Something about him doesn’t make me trust the guy. Joly and Jehan are also having an affair.’’

 

Courfeyrac nearly spilled his water. ‘’Wait, what? Joly and Jehan?’’

 

Combeferre chuckled, amused. ‘’Well, Grantaire and Enjolras happened. And that’s more surprising than Joly and Jehan.’’

 

‘’Yeah, but,’’ Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. ‘’It was so painfully obvious how much Grantaire adores Enjolras, but Joly and Jehan...when did that happen?’’

 

‘’Joly asked him out first. I’m not sure how that happened, as long as they’re happy.’’

 

They talked about everything and anything; from their latest petition to recent politics, to comfortable silences where they sip their wine. Courfeyrac found himself easily lost in Combeferre’s eyes, they were so blue and beautiful. He found himself ridiculously pleased that he was there. Mind you, he had been with scores of men and women, all attractive and affectionate, but Combeferre was different. He was a gentleman, so respectful, but was massively famed for his smart debations. 

 

‘’Where do you go from here?’’ Combeferre asked, catching Courfeyrac off-guard. 

 

‘’Milan,’’ he replied. Then Vienna, London, Tokyo, and New York.’’

 

‘’I missed you,’’ Combeferre lamented. ‘’We’ve all missed you.’’

 

‘’Hey, hey now,’’ Courfeyrac smiles sadly. ‘’We’ve got tonight. Don’t go mushy on me, ‘Ferre.’’

 

Combeferre tutted mockingly, raising an eyebrow. ‘’I flew over here to watch you perform, and this is the gratitude I received? My, Gaston, I’m shocked.’’

 

Courfeyrac winced. ‘’Remus, could you not?’’

 

‘’Thankfully, my name doesn’t faze me,’’ Combeferre grinned. ‘’Favourite series, favourite character.’’

 

‘’Of course,’’ Courfeyrac shot back. ‘’You would be a smart goody-two-shoes like Moony, wouldn’t you?’’

 

‘’That’s not all there is to Lupin,’’ Combeferre defended. ‘’Come on, he lost all of his friends, he tries to rebuild his friendship with Sirius after twelve years, and knew that one of his best friends betrayed his other friend, but still he was strong and fought in the war.’’

 

‘’At least I know you’re as strong,’’ Courfeyrac replied.

 

After they finished supper, Courfeyrac said, ‘’Look, I want to spend more time with you. Would you like to take a ride on the canal?’’

 

‘’Of course.’’ 

 

They boarded a canal bus that cruised the Amstel, laughing as the moon’s shadow stretched upon them. The city was alive tonight. Everything is always alive with Combeferre around. The commentary rang over as they passed the Smalste Huis - the narrowest house in Amsterdam - which was only as wide as the front door, and the Westerskerk with the Crown of the Hapsburg Emperor Maximilian. 

 

They later went under the wooden lift bridge under the Amsten, passing loads of houseboats that served as home for millions of other people. It never failed to struck Courfeyrac of how strange it was, that a place to which he was traveling was the batch of a million memories to its residence, but he was only a passing traveler. That really fucked him up. Beside him, he heard a sharp intake of breath from Combeferre.

 

‘’You never been here before?’’

 

‘’No,’’ he smiled. ‘’This is my first time, and I’m glad I’m spending it with you.’’

 

‘’I am too.’’ He felt a vast frisson of pleasure.

 

Combeferre looked at him in surprise. ‘’Really now?’’

 

‘’I’m no liar, ‘Ferre,’’ a wave of intensity rushed over him. ‘’’Ferre, I have to tell you something...’’ he turned to the other man. The lighting was dim, which made it hard to watch his expression. ‘’I’m in love with you.’’

 

Combeferre breathed, flushed. 

 

‘’Look, if you’re not interested then...’’

 

But Combeferre took his hand in his. ‘’Are you joking? Let’s get off at the next stop.’’

 

‘’Your room or mine?’’ Courfeyrac asked lightly when they arrived at the hotel.

 

‘’Yours,’’ Combeferre encouraged, a hot urgency about him that wants Courfeyrac to make passionate love to him already. It seemed to him that this was destiny; for all the second half of his youth, he had spent it pining after Combeferre. 

 

They were both impatient, wanting, yearning, when they reached his room, and then they were kissing, lips seeking the other’s in synch and in rhythm and in all the glories of pleasure that Courfeyrac rarely indulged in before. He wounded his arms around Combeferre, who moaned into his mouth. ‘’Oh God, Courf...’’

 

They began to undress each other, their shadows urgent against the ceiling. Their world had narrowed down into nothing but themselves. Combeferre was here, in his arms, naked and beautiful and so desirable in their hot mess of love and happiness it was impossible to think of anything else. 

 

The silence of the room was broken by a clap of thunder. That night, Courfeyrac made love to his lover slowly and quietly, taking the quality of his precious time, looking right into those orbs of pure blue as his hands roamed all over Combeferre - his hips, his waist, his stomach, his ass, his legs. He memorized every bump, every curve, every indentation. Every one of them carried the weight of the world. Combeferre kissed Courfeyrac’s neck, throwing his legs over his waist, licking the salty skin erotically. It was wanton and sensuous, until they picked up pace, and the slow languid thrusts that Courfeyrac had managed to turn into quick-paced and neediness, pounding down, plunging further, until Combeferre closed his eyes and cried out in pleasure, clutching at Courfeyrac’s buttocks. He moved faster and faster until they both came, and they were spent.

 

Combeferre held Courfeyrac close after, stroking his brunette hair. Courfeyrac snuggled closer, loving Combeferre’s hot breath against his cheek. He never felt so joyful...it was like he moved heaven and earth all at once.

 

‘’Courf...’’ Combeferre whispered huskily.

 

‘’Yes?’’

 

‘’Would you like me to come with you, to Milan?’’

 

‘’You know what the answer is, beautiful,’’ he grinned. ‘’Of course. I’ll never let you go.’’

 

‘’Good,’’ he murmured, closing his eyes. ‘’Now go to sleep.’’

**Author's Note:**

> Put a comment down there, I'm interested of what you thought.


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